


Not a duckling after all

by anamia



Series: The daemon!jolras AU [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one has ever seen Combeferre's daemon. Courfeyrac, fueled by wine and whim, decides to find out why. The answer is not exactly what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a duckling after all

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by tumblr user hamstr's [pocket](http://hamstr.tumblr.com/post/51226497065/so-pilf-mentioned-something-about-enjolras-being-a) [Enjolras](http://hamstr.tumblr.com/image/51435403592) [pictures](http://hamstr.tumblr.com/post/51305368929/jehan-and-courfeyrac-with-pocket-jolras-u). The suggestion that this would make Enjolras Combeferre's daemon came from tumblr user pilferingapples. I just took their ideas and ran. Pretty sure I twisted the rules of the HDMverse slightly to make this work, but I tried to stay as true to canon as possible.

 “It’s a moth. Of course it’s a moth.” Bahorel leaned back, chair teetering on two legs. He propped his legs up on the table and took a long swig of his wine. His dæmon, a garishly colored bird whose talons had schooled more than one adversary on the meaning of respect, gave an indignant squawk as her perch shifted under her and nipped Bahorel’s ear in punishment. He turned to grin unapologetically at her and continued, “It’s hopelessly dull, of course, but fitting.”

“Then why have we never seen it?” Courfeyrac demanded. His face was redder than usual from drink and company, but his words were clear as ever and his sleek cat dæmon twitched her tail in support. “A moth dæmon is hardly shameful.”

“I think it’s a duck.” Grantaire’s pronouncement was met with silence and then laughter from the other two, just as he had intended. He finished his glass with a single swallow and poured himself more to drink, already wholly inebriated. Curled up at his feet his dæmon snored quietly, his body less able to process alcohol than Grantaire’s. He too had the form of a cat, though he was far less elegant than Courfeyrac’s dæmon.

“How, pray tell, would our valiant leader hide a duck so well?” Bahorel asked. “They are hardly pocket-sized.”

“A very small duck,” Grantaire said, warming to his theme. “A duckling, perhaps, who never grew up. A living metaphor: golden youth concealed by outer steadiness and wisdom. It would certainly account for some of his more absurd convictions.”

“And his vocal distaste for the creatures?” Courfeyrac asked, flicking an imaginary spec of dirt from his waistcoat.

“A front,” Grantaire declared. “A clever ruse to throw us off the trail!”

“Not clever enough, clearly,” Bahorel observed. “Or perhaps your imagination is running away with you.”

“Never,” Grantaire said. “I don’t have an imagination. That’s the purview of poets and children and I’m neither.”

Bahorel laughed. “You keep telling yourself that,” he agreed. Then, returning to his earlier subject, he added, “I still think it’s a moth. Its shyness is easy enough to explain, as it is a delicate creature and we are not always gentle.” He grinned at his dæmon, who laughed.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “We’ve seen his rooms,” he pointed out, running a hand down his dæmon’s back. She arched into his touch happily. “No sign of any moths. Or ducklings, for that matter.”

“So what do you suggest?” Bahorel wanted to know. “Since you disdain our theories?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted. “We’ve been friends with Combeferre for years and I’ve never seen hide nor hair of her.”

“Maybe he’s a witch,” Grantaire suggested. “Theirs can travel for kilometers without their humans.”

“They’re also women,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “Which Combeferre, his unusual regard for the fairer sex notwithstanding, is not.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

All three men turned to see Feuilly lounging a little ways away, his dæmon scratching industriously at something by his feet. He reached down and scratched her head, then shrugged slightly. “It would be more fruitful than baseless speculation.”

“But it takes out all the fun in the exercise,” Bahorel objected. His dæmon hopped down from the chair and went to greet Feuilly’s, while Bahorel beckoned Feuilly to a seat at their table.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Prouvaire,” the workingman informed Bahorel, pouring himself a small glass of wine.

“He’d never tell us,” Courfeyrac objected.

“Have you tried?”

Courfeyrac started to answer then stopped. His dæmon laughed. “No,” she admitted. “We always assumed that if he felt reason to conceal her species he wouldn’t respond well to direct questions.”

“It’s Combeferre,” Feuilly reminded her. “He’s unlikely to be vexed over a simple question, and he won’t answer anything he doesn’t want to. You know how he can get.”

The others laughed. Combeferre’s tendency to lead a curious inquirer in merry circles of convoluted logic to avoid having to answer questions was legendary, as was the man’s tendency to do it all with a welcoming smile and looking the very picture of well-intentioned innocence. More than one suspicious law enforcement officer had stumbled away from their encounters with him completely bewildered and realized only later that they had received none of the answers they sought.

Courfeyrac stood, his dæmon leaping from her perch to the ground just in time. “Well, I’m off,” he said. “Anyone feel inclined to join in the fun?”

“You’re going to ask him?”Bahorel asked. Courfeyrac nodded. “Count me out. I love Combeferre like a brother but I haven’t had nearly enough to drink yet to get involved in this.”

“You’re just sore because he’s unlikely to try punching us if he doesn’t want to answer,” Courfeyrac said, and Bahorel grinned.

“What can I say?” he said. “I’m a simple man of simple pleasures.” He drained his glass.

“Feuilly, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac invited. Feuilly shook his head, while in his corner Grantaire had joined his dæmon in slumber.

“Fine then,” Courfeyrac said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “We shall brave our leader’s ire alone. Should we return from this unable to do anything but babble about hieroglyphics and the bones of the ear I hope you will remember us well.” He gave a short, theatrical bow as the others laughed.

“Go on if you’re going,” Bahorel said, still laughing. Courfeyrac grinned and made his way out of the Musain, dæmon strolling along proudly beside him.

*

Combeferre sat at his desk frowning over the latest reports from the docks. The workers there were treated abysmally, nearly as badly as slaves or convicts, but he had not yet found a way to contact them without putting them into more danger. Perched on the desk Enjolras read with him, frowning fiercely. Abruptly, Combeferre’s dæmon jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth on the desk angrily.

“It’s not right,” he said. “Why should men be punished merely for wanting to be treated like men? Our documents proclaim that all are created equal and our conduct suggests exactly the opposite and no one cares!”

“Some people care,” Combeferre reminded him with a sigh. “But not enough.”

“We need to do more,” Enjolras insisted, glaring down at the document. “We need to make them see their hypocrisy!”

“You know I agree with you,” Combeferre said. “But it’s not that simple. We can’t just march in and demand to be listened to, even with the weight of justice on our side. They’ll be polite to us because we’re rich and then turn around and treat the workers all the worse for having complained.”

Enjolras scowled. “I know,” he said almost sullenly. “But it’s not right.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Combeferre frowned. “Company at this hour?” he asked half to himself and half to Enjolras. “I thought all our friends were busy tonight.”

Enjolras scampered up Combeferre’s sleeve and settled himself in the specially designed pocket. “Maybe something came up,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric.

“Maybe,” Combeferre said, still frowning. He picked up the candle they’d been using and crossed to the door. When he opened it he found Courfeyrac and his dæmon standing outside, clearly drunk. Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Is something amiss?” he asked.

Courfeyrac let himself into the room and wandered over to Combeferre’s desk, casting an eye over the reports scattered there. “Docks again?” he asked.

Combeferre crossed his arms over his chest, being careful not to disturb Enjolras. “Yes,” he said. “Though something tells me you didn’t come here to read over reports with me. If you’re here to try and drag us to the theatre with you again, you needn’t bother. Once was more than enough.”

Courfeyrac turned, eyes alight as though Combeferre had just given him some kind of an opening. “We were talking this evening,” he began, and Combeferre’s heart sank. Nothing good ever came of things that began that way. “And you came up.”

“Is that so?”

“We couldn’t help but note that no one has had the privilege of setting eyes on your dæmon, though clearly she exists.”

“He,” Combeferre corrected. “And of course he exists. I’m hardly a philosopher, but even I know that dæmons are the very essences of ourselves and that those without are doomed to horrors worse than we can imagine. You have heard the stories just as I have, surely.”

“It just seems odd that none of us have ever seen him,” Courfeyrac persisted, not rising to the bait. “And so naturally we wondered what form he could have that would require such careful concealment.”

“I can think of any number of forms that would lend themselves to such privacy,” Combeferre said. “A bat, for instance, could not tolerate the light and noise of our usual meeting place and so would prefer to remain hidden for their own comfort. An insect could be crushed underfoot, while an amphibian would dry out completely within a few minutes.”

“But if it were any of those things I would surely be seeing him now,” Courfeyrac countered. “But in four years of friendship I have not yet seen even a glimpse, which leads me to suspect deliberate concealment rather than necessity.”

Combeferre laughed a little. “I see you’ve thought this through,” he said. “Did you actually have something to ask me or are you making idle conversation?”

“What form does your dæmon have?” That was Courfeyrac’s dæmon. She had long since made a habit of addressing Courfeyrac’s friends directly, and she now settled her intense amber gaze directly on Combeferre.

Combeferre started to answer but was interrupted by Enjolras himself, who clambered up out of the pocket and made his way to his customary perch on Combeferre’s shoulder. He waved cheerfully at Courfeyrac and his dæmon, both of whom were staring openly.

“Courfeyrac, Marielle, a pleasure,” Enjolras said, sketching a bow.

Combeferre rolled his eyes at his dæmon’s theatrics then turned a raised eyebrow towards his thunderstruck friends. “Are you satisfied now?” he asked.

“He’s a man,” Courfeyrac said, even as his dæmon managed, “He’s tiny!”

Combeferre bit back a cutting remark about their respective powers of observation and waved them to a seat instead. They took it, still clearly shocked. Combeferre joined them, leaning back carefully and crossing his legs at the knee. “I assume you have questions for us?”

“How?” Courfeyrac demanded, still staring at Enjolras.

Combeferre shrugged. “No one is quite certain,” he said. “We were born small, both of us, but that does not account for Enjolras’ uniqueness. Our physician could find no explanation and, as we are both quite healthy, deemed it odd but not concerning. Our peers thought differently, particularly after Enjolras settled.” He shrugged again. “We adapted.”

Enjolras scowled. “I still think we should have done more to change their minds,” he said.

“You have made your opinions on the matter quite clear, yes,” Combeferre said. “But we were young. And these days going through explanations is not exactly our favorite way to spend the time.”

“So that’s how you got so good at deflecting questions!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. Combeferre inclined his head.

“In part,” he agreed. “Have you more questions for us or have you satisfied your curiosity? Because we have work to do yet tonight and a shift at the Necker in the morning.”

“I’ve heard stories about men with human dæmons,” Courfeyrac said, eyeing Enjolras speculatively. “He’s perhaps a bit small, but are you…”

“Don’t,” Combeferre interrupted. “I am going to chalk that question up to drink and forget it was ever asked in the morning.” He glared at his friend. “And I would suggest you do the same. Goodnight.”

Courfeyrac recognized the dismissal and rose, grinning. “I make no promises,” he said. “But we won’t disturb you longer. It’s been an education.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and showed his friend to the door.

*

“No taller than my hand, with hair like spun gold,” Courfeyrac insisted. His dæmon nodded her agreement. Their audience seemed unconvinced.

“Far be it from me to doubt your honesty,” Bahorel declared. “But I rather think you may have let the wine go to your head a bit. I have never met someone less likely to have such a fantastic dæmon than Combeferre. His feet are far too firmly grounded for that.”

“Are they now?”

The group turned to see Combeferre himself coming towards them, a smile playing on his lips. He took a seat and the others shifted to give him room. Courfeyrac turned towards. “You tell them,” he said. “They won’t believe me about Enjolras.”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “You’re gossiping about me,” he pointed out. “I don’t think I should help you at all.”

Courfeyrac pouted and turned a truly heartbroken face towards Combeferre, his expression spoiled only by the laughter he could not quite keep from his eyes. “You would not help a friend in need?” he asked. “One whose honor has been so terribly maligned by those he once thought to call brothers? Does four years of love mean nothing to you?”

Combeferre laughed. “You needn’t try so hard,” he informed his friend. “I’ve known you for too long for that to work.” He leaned back, raising his eyebrows at the rest of the group. “Haven’t you better things to do than gossip about the state of my soul?”

“Nonsense,” Bahorel said. “What better topic of conversation could there be?”

“The state of your city?” Combeferre suggested dryly.

“The two are so deeply intertwined we could not help but think of one while speaking about the other,” Feuilly offered. “Not when you have given so much of your time to the city that you and she are practically one.”

Combeferre laughed again. “Quite the compliment,” he said. “Would I be correct in assuming that if you don’t get the answers you seek Courfeyrac will not be the only one to disturb my evenings with his curiosity?”

“That would be a safe assumption,” Bahorel agreed.

“The things I do for peace and quiet,” Combeferre said, and reached into his pocket to remove Enjolras, who sat down on his shoulder and held onto a piece of Combeferre’s hair for balance. “You should have believed Courfeyrac.”

The others stared at Enjolras in a kind of stunned silence for several seconds. Finally Grantaire, his tone half wonder half disbelief, managed, “So not a duckling then.”

It was Combeferre’s turn to stare. A moment later he collapsed into helpless gales of laughter, shoulders shaking with mirth. This only produced more staring as everyone turned to watch their leader, usually so calm and collected, give in to his emotions so. When he finally recovered his breath his eyes were watering a little and he wiped them with the back of his hand.

“No,” he managed, still chuckling. “Not a duckling.”


End file.
